


Shake Them From Their Clinging To The Earth

by dr_zook



Category: Christian Bible, Christian Bible (New Testament), Norse Religion & Lore, תנ"ך | Tanakh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Companionable Snark, Gen, M/M, Other, Passive-aggression, actually he's running a bistro, bartender!Loki, bartenders are your best friends, clafoutis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki runs a bistro which happens to be a very special place with quite special patrons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shake Them From Their Clinging To The Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smileodon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileodon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Spy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/373318) by [dr_zook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook). 



> Dear recipient: obviously, this is a modern!AU—because it features Loki and folks from the New Testament and/or the Bible. I tried to weave in as much of your optional details as possible (hence the crossover!) and hope you like it a tiny little bit! 
> 
> The title is a line borrowed from [Minsk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBhaARNHBXU).
> 
> Thanks to T. for speed-beta (any remaining mistakes are mine entirely) and L. for generally cheering and asking the right questions. ♥

The door to the kitchen swings open and Loki emerges, balancing a plate of clafoutis fresh from the oven. He's humming an unsung chant, truly enjoys the vanilla whiff of warm flan, and smugly places it onto the counter. He pulls out a long, sharp knife and cuts generous slices. Life could be so simple, and yet so pleasurable.

Later he'll swear he didn't hear them coming, wouldn't be able to say when they actually used the door like any other patron. Or did they already stand there in the small bistro buzzing with its earthen and copper gleams, waiting for him? But he hadn't already unlocked the doors, had he?

But of course, these visitors _are_ _not_ like any other patron. Loki senses it immediately, although it has been a while since he encountered a messenger. And here are two of them, like doubling the number would add weight to the importance of their appearance. Loki shifts uneasily on his feet.

Their overwhelming beauty radiates in plumes of incense, penning at the windows, and soaking into the wooden interior. It's obvious that the two are used to more reaction than a dutiful half-bow and eyebrows raised in question.

Eventually Loki clears his throat. “Gentlemen, welcome. I presume you know our business hours.”

They look at each other.

Loki rakes a hand through his medium short-cut flame hair and switches to his placating, generous smile. “How can I help you, then?”

The visitors' expressions are unreadable. “Greetings,” they say gravely in unison in his general direction. It's the weirdest thing Loki has witnessed for a very long time, because that's all they do before they continue staring at him, at their surroundings. Neither of them has been here before.

“Well, can I get you anything?” Loki asks, due to the nature of this place—despite all of his internal alarm bells going off at the same time. Bad idea, very bad idea. Get them out. _Out_. He lets the knife drop into the sink.

“Most definitely not,” says the messenger with the white lily sticking out of the buttonhole of his frock coat. His impeccable grey-blue frock coat, to be precise: the long, flowing cut both accentuates and veils his slender figure.

The other shoots at him a dry glare and says, “Why not?” _Uh-oh_. Loki knows some power play when it's presented below his nose. “I try a piece of that cake,” the second messenger declares. His tie pin is a little golden scale, and his fingers are perfect as they unbutton his classy black suit jacket and he glides onto a bar stool. “Gabriel?” He asks his companion who just continues standing there in all his majesty.

Loki swallows, it's clear who the other one is. Fuck, this is really big business. He should have known. _Fuck_. He grabs a towel to palm off the panic sweat, hoping they don't notice—but judging from both their disesteeming stares they do. Oh, great. He adds a wine glass and starts polishing it for good measure. His tongue is tied, and he sees himself as a funambulist, prancing on a very, very fine arris: any false word, any false gesture can blow things up—beyond repair, beyond mending.

“Maybe you heard about it,” Michael drawls, helping himself with the pastry and waving for a fork to dissect it. “It's a delicate matter.” He chops it to pieces, starts to arrange them on his plate by size before choosing the smallest, and putting it into his mouth after inhaling the rich flavour.

“We're looking for the Son of Man,” Gabriel says when it's clear that Michael will just continue eating. “We heard he did appear here.”

The cloth squeaks too loud against the glass, but Loki can't stop. “How come you're _looking_ for him? Isn't he part of your... confraternity?”

Gabriel's gaze freezes even more, and Michael clears his throat. “If you want to put it that way, yes. But, well,” he seems to think about how much information he's allowed to share, “we're worrying about him and his whereabouts. He's been gone for quite some time now. Without him things are..."  He frowns as he speaks slowly, as if tasting the implications of his words. "They are in disarray.”

Despite his intuition, Loki has to laugh. “And now you have to drag him home to daddy?”

“You might watch your language,” Michael snaps.

Loki huffs. “You might want to check who's the owner of this establishment, messenger.” He manages to form a diffuse air of disregard around that last word. “You might find out that this would be, in fact, myself; and with all respect, I don't value you debasing me.”

Gabriel tilts his head to one side, as if listening to some internal voice. Then his eyes focus again on the scenery he's part of.

“After all it's you who came to me, wanting something.” Maybe, Loki thinks, maybe he can bargain a bit.

Michael stares at him intently. “We know that you are aware of being in a precarious position, trickster.” He points the fork at Loki.

Loki grabs the towel tighter, the polished glass in his hands cracks. “I am?” He feels his eyebrows shooting up, head tilting forwards like a tortoise, because he must have misheard the oh-so righteous destroyer.

“You are enjoying quite extraordinary... privileges here.” Michael's gaze wanders through the room, unimpressed by it's owner. “You also know that they don't come for free.”

That's fucking blackmail in Loki's book. His bistro is some kind of haven, the patrons are mostly creatures and numinous spirits, who accept this special, _neutral_ zone. No imbroglio can be more important than drinking and dining exquisitely and in peace. This, or you are out. As simple as that.

The bistro is on the ground floor of a remarkable house; it's predecessors having been sanctuaries ever since the dawn of this world. Supernatural _things_ wouldn't work like outside, that's why you can't just materialise at the bar or something. You have to enter through the door and this small step diminishes your powers. And this has _nothing_ to do with those two's boss-man.

“You are bleeding,” Gabriel nods towards Loki's hands, his glance chill.

Redness seeps through the pure linen towel, Loki watches it transfixed. It's the same redness his boots are coloured with, the redness that wallows up from an old, sacrificed goat's seething neck, jugular vein cut open with a fresh, clean blade; and there is a uproar between his ears and he forces himself to breathe, breathe evenly, to be not drawn into this vision of yesteryears, of long lost centuries. _Breathe, dammit_. Then he throws the glass fragments in the trash bin below the bar and presses the cloth against the slitted skin.

“What do you want?” Loki hisses. “If you already know he had been here.”

The messengers' faces open with the affirmation, there is something going on between them that doesn't need any magic tricks or _powers_. “It may be possible he returns,” Gabriel throws into the space between them.

Loki has to snort. “You mean like a serial killer or what?”

Michael almost chokes on his bite, Gabriel only looks aghast at Loki. “You realise about whom we are talking, don't you?”

“What an act of negligence!” Michael suddenly wheezes and stares at what he had coughed up. He's even a bit flushed from the coughing fit. “What's that?”

“A cherry pit,” Loki explains matter-of-factly; he suppresses rolling his eyes. Is Michael really _that_ stupid? Loki feels the blood still seeping from the wound. Since the table was set up anew after Ragnarök, his abilities and powers have rapidly changed; decreased even. Standing here behind the bar or not.

“Listen,” Michael's voice is tight and low, fork thrown down on the counter. “You will contact us when he returns. You will keep him from leaving until we arrive. We won't stay, for we have other things to attend to.” Violence crowns his hair, flaring at the tips, and Loki has to summon every willpower to not flatten against the booze shelf. “And yet you shouldn't dilly-dally, trickster.”

Gabriel nods pleased. Then, like an afterthought: “What was his business here? Was he alone?”

Loki cringes, his bowels screech and there is sweat at the back of his neck. He's not sure if that's the effect these messengers have in general, or if it is his conscience, begging to not be ignored. “He ate something. Drank my best wine,” Loki says calmly, unable to lie.

As soon as Jeshua had stepped through the entrance a few weeks ago, the other patrons were silent for a heartbeat or two. The Son of Man had taken a look around, and when his beatific smile broke through and he had lowered his gaze, everybody took a deep breath and continued like nothing had happened. Then Loki has steered him towards his booked table and brought him everything he wanted.

“He didn't talk about why he appeared here,” Loki continues. Technically, this is the truth. “I didn't get the impression he was on the run.”

Gabriel's eyes slit and he takes a step forward. Michael slides from his stool, lining up beside him, pastry forgotten. Loki refuses to blink, forces himself to breathe evenly. _You can do this_ , he cheers himself. _It's over soon. They will leave any minute._

“I wouldn't say, 'on the run',” Gabriel declares. He is close now, half around the counter; his eyes have no colour, well, maybe it's some kind of mildewed emerald. This close Loki can smell and see that the lily isn't freshly plucked. It's overripe and becoming soggy.

Michael's back is ramrod-straight. “You will act according to our request.” It's not a question; the messenger is pure force. “Don't expect further amenities.” Then he spits out: “It's not as if there aren't enough already.”

Loki feels his lungs shrinking, like the oxygen is drawn out of them in an excruciatingly slow manner. He grips the counter, nodding. “I understand,” he says, although he doesn't. He's at a loss about what exactly they try to imply. About what would happen if he won't comply.

But most of all he is no-one's errand boy. And more important: he's not a child, having to fix their parents' marriage and delivering information between the two of them. He swallows down his anger, has to swallow again, because Pride keeps floating atop.

“Good,” Gabriel's mouth breaks into a smile, and this time Loki has to lower his gaze because it's almost too much.

When he dares to look up again, the messengers are gone.

The walls are still pulsating from their sheer presence, and Loki fumbles blindly for the Polish vodka behind him. Second shelf from bottom, fourth bottle from the right. He screws it open with his thumb and downs a gulp. “Well, fuck me,” he mutters. He hears muffled clatter from the kitchen, but his attention is drawn towards the entrance again.

“Greetings.” The next costumer before opening hours enters, looking around and scrunching his nose. “Eww,” he adds.

Loki pours two shots, shoves one towards him on the counter and glares. “You missed your friends by a hair's breadth.”

Lucifer's smile is all teeth. “They aren't my friends, as you should know by now.” He pats his tailored slacks for a pack of cigarettes and retrieves one. Out of habit Loki is in waiter mode and lights a match for him with fingers still shaking.

Lucifer's amber irides eye him warily. “You okay?”

“Fuck you,” Loki says and downs the alcohol, refilling the glass.

Lucifer's laugh is small and a bit ugly. He smoothly slides onto the bar stool where Michael sat a few minutes ago; his bottom shifts a few times back and forth, but stills eventually. After emptying the vodka glass he uses it as an ashtray.

Loki wonders where he suddenly got his manners from. “Well,” he tries. “Just how desperate must you be?” Today's guests are making him wary, he wonders if he will open at all, later. But he guesses he can't do this to the other patrons.

“He has left,” Lucifer states. His elbows dig into the surface of the counter, the shoulders are sticking out of his back like stumps of wings, yet Loki knows that they aren't stumps, but _whole_ and _real_ and _there_ and just too bright for this establishment. “He fixed the coffee table and then he was gone.”

“Oh,” Loki makes a surprised sound. “That's all?”

“He is gone since—“ Lucifer's brow crinkles, he is obviously pondering which units of measurement would apply here: days or months? Generations? “Since last Friday to be precise—and I don't even know why I'm telling you this.” He doesn't take notice of Loki's question, but of Michael's leftovers and puts them into his mouth with his bare fingers. “He could be returning any day, right?” he mouths around them. There is a strange notion of what? Hope? It's grazing the corners of Lucifer's eyes.

“Well, they _are_ looking for him,” Loki tries. “Maybe he wants to make himself scarce until—I don't know. Until things look better for him.”

“Probably,” Lucifer gobbles loudly. Then his face lightens up. “This is perfect, but you probably know that,” he says rolling a few cherry pits between his sharp teeth. “For a real clafoutis you don't remove the pits. Their amygdalin released during baking is essential for the taste.”

“Smart-arse,” Loki says. But of course he's glad that at least one person is appreciating the food properly.

“Your kitchen guy knows his shit,” Lucifer says slowly, part suspicious, part meek.

Loki finds himself laughing good-heartedly, yet a bit hysterical. “I'll tell him.”

“Tell him—“ Lucifer starts, then trails off. He stares at the connecting kitchen door. “Tell him he can come over. Any time. I'd be reciprocating, of course.”

“I'll tell him,” Loki promises and wonders why he doesn't tell him to just fuck off, and take his problems and adversaries and heartsickness with him. He sighs.

Lucifer sighs as well and crushes the butt of his cigarette amidst the rubble of spit out cherry pits and crumbs. “In return I promise to enlighten you about what games... the Name plays—as soon as I found out myself.” He eases himself heavily from the stool and presents a mock salute towards Loki. “See you around, I guess.”

“That's a threat, right?”

“A _promise_ , you weasel. That's a difference.” Lucifer smiles weakly. “Now that I know where to get good pastry _and_ wine in a nice, laid-back atmosphere.” He seems to think about it. “It's a shame I didn't come before. Wasn't something personal, I guess.”

"Right," Loki shrugs. “Doesn't matter anyway.” He personally ushers Lucifer out, who takes one, two steps on the pavement—and then just explodes into thousand shards and black, glittering dust to be blown away by a late afternoon wind. “Fucking show-off,” Loki mutters and turns back inside, locking the door before with two audible clicking noises. That's it. No further patrons today he has decided.

The door to the kitchen stands open, with Jeshua leaning against the frame, drying his hands on the apron tied around his hips. He offers a sympathetic smile. “That's quite some illustrious gathering you provide, Laufeyson.”

Loki grunts and says, “See, you're better on your way soon.” He helps himself with another swig from the vodka bottle. “I don't know when they're back. And I don't know how they knew anyway.” He dares looking into that grey-swirling depths of Jeshua's eyes. So human, so ageless. “I don't know if they really cannot take this apart. And I'm not fond of trying, to be honest.”

Loki is smitten with the Son of Man since he saw him for the first time. The way he acts and acted around reputed superiors had impressed Loki. The way he treats everybody as an equal. Being never more or less than the creature he happens to be. Destined to fulfil a plan, not being asked about it. But as soon as they find you talking, when you have managed to slip from their grasp, they do actually listen to you. Loki can relate to that quite well.

“I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble,” Jeshua says and it's obvious he means it: the soft crinkle around his eyes, the half-frown of his brow. “Thank you for having me during the last few days.”

“I'm not sure where your friends will appear next,” Loki murmurs, slightly embarrassed. “So watch out.”

Jeshua looks slightly afflicted. “I wouldn't exactly call them my friends—“

“Funny, I heard this just before,” Loki snorts. “Makes you think about if they have any friends at all, doesn't it. The two being stuck with each other all the time? Small wonder they're constantly so passive-aggressive.” He pulls the two stools from atop a small table near the bar and slumps onto one of them. He wonders if he was the same with Thor when they were bound for Midgard, or Jotunheim, or wherever.

Jeshua's smile is tentative, mirth trickles from the corners of his eyes. With a sigh he shoves himself from the door, and reaches down to retrieve the first-aid kit from below the bar. “Let me help you,” he says, nodding at Loki's hands. And then he takes the few steps up to him, sits across from Loki, and just plucks away the towel. Carefully dabs at the crusted blood matter, and applies disinfectant.

Loki listens to that spark of childish longing spearing through his heart. A longing for some kind of care and attention. With Sigyn being gone, there hasn't been anyone tending to him.

Jeshua smiles his benefactor smile after he has wrapped some bandages around Loki's hand. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” Loki says and he means it.

“You're welcome, Laufeyson.”

And Loki swears he'll punch him in his face, swiping off that unnerving gentleness, if he calls on him again like this.

Like he wasn't blood brothers with Thor, son of Odin. As if he wasn't blood brothers with Odin himself, spawned by Bestla and Borr. As if he's not some kind of honorary deity, staggering around the Nine Worlds. But as if he is an individual, with a mother who gave birth to him and raised him, full of affection and pride. Who shielded him from his violent genitor.

Like he has had a life, a history. Like he has a future. As if he has simply crossed paths with Jeshua who will disappear again eventually. But who treated him like he was worth a thing or two, and like he respected him.

Loki flexes his bandaged hand. “What is it with the Morning Star? What are you doing here, with him? Or rather, now _without_ him?” By now he is convinced that Jeshua doesn't do 'upset'. Or 'annoyed'. The man just breathes evenly and adjusts to his surroundings.

“I asked him to help me,” Jeshua says, furling the rest of the bandage. He looks tired, maybe from preparing the kitchen all day. Maybe from avoiding those who are searching for him. From explaining himself. His plain, white shirt has untucked itself from the rich, brown slacks. There are splashes of batter somewhere at midriff height.

“Help you—with what?”

Jeshua calmly shoves away the first-aid kit, then looks at Loki. Pondering about what to say. “I felt disassociated,” he eventually says into the space between both their heartbeats. “With below.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but why aren't you... at home then? At least you still have one.”

“Define _home_ , my friend.” Both clement and curious. He unknots the strings of his apron, removes it from his waist and folds it.

“Home is—“ Loki trails off. Because it hits him. Hits him like a dwarven-forged hammer with its handle too short; thrown to hit straight his solar plexus. And reminding him how much he misses Odin with his mild, reproachful eye. Who didn't talk unless he absolutely had to. But, oh, his many names spoke volumes. He had loved their abundance—so very unlike THE NAME!! who wants you to tremble and bow and crawl before you are even allowed to mumble prayers into your slobber-crusted beard.

And so Jeshua watches Loki patiently as he feels himself spiralling downwards into his memories, watches him remembering how he used to clutch the hand rail of Thor's chariot, the two of them almost as inseparable as the two rams racing them through the skies. Their hearts cheering as one, as they dived though the rain-laden, dark storm clouds, heading for their next adventure, the next story to be told afterwards at the fires. He feels the rainfalls whip against his cheeks, Thor's upper arm jostling playfully against him.

Loki's chest clenches, his vision of patient Jeshua in front of him blurs.

And when he opens his eyes again, takes a deep breath and forces life back into his toes: Jeshua is gone. Without a trace, without a goodbye. As stealthy as a thief in the night, as an affair gone back to their lover. No explanations, nothing.

Loki doesn't wonder about how Jeshua's embroidered handkerchief found its way into his hands, because he feels dried tears crunching from his cheeks as he finds himself smiling despite Jeshua being gone again.

Deprived of any brother or comrades-in-arms Loki sighs and rises to turn off the lights. He doesn't have to explain to anyone, he'll just keep the bistro closed for tonight. Probably he'll open tomorrow again.

But until then, he'll just keep on sitting here and stare at the shadows cast by the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear it's pure coincidence, but have [this](http://danceswithhiddles.tumblr.com/post/69674246696/hiddlestonfan-x-open-your-eyes) as a bonus. Because I had Mr Hiddleston in mind when I wrote Loki--Mr Hiddleston being Mr Hiddleston, nothing more and nothing less. (And because he's a dancing god, isn't he?) 
> 
> :D
> 
> Also: Jeshua calls Loki 'Laufeyson', which is a matronymic (see Eddic poetry). It refers to the tale of Loki's parentage, where the Jötunn Fárbauti (something along the lines of 'Cruel Striker' or 'Dangerous Hitter') impregnates his wife Laufey (something along the lines of 'Leaves Island' or 'Full of Leaves') with little Loki.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Flesh Conjures the Infinite Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249621) by [dr_zook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook)




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